


How to Treat An Outcast First-Class

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel, Snowpiercer (2013), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Violence, Moral Ambiguity, Omega Tony Stark, Or: The Whacky Snowpiercer AU Nobody Asked For, Post-Apocalypse, Power Imbalance, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, but the writer's muse wants not for approval, in fact i've been asked not to write it, it wants only for BLOOD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: [...] "You want to the front. You want the engine. And I just so happen to be your only chance of getting there.”Steve’s going to admit, the guy’s got spunk for a naked, first-class omega in ten wagons full of angry alphas who’d give a not-so-figurative limb to get a go at him.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 246





	How to Treat An Outcast First-Class

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably one of the most self-indulgent (and tragically niche) things i've ever written. i definitely didn't mean for it to go this far but i figured, well, i wrote it, might as well share it too. yup, it's the quarantine madness setting in.
> 
> some disclaimers:
> 
>   * this fic doesn't spend a lot of time on worldbuilding. if you haven't seen snowpiercer (it's been 7 years, what have you been doing?) but still feel like reading, maybe give the [trailer](https://youtu.be/nX5PwfEMBM0) a watch to get a general idea about its theme/vibe.
>   * i didn't fact-check the details re: snowpiercer lore, so do consider any mistakes you may/will find creative freedom.
>   * as per the tags, there's porn happening in this. know that the situational conditions make it so the consent (though given) is mildly dubious at best.
>   * as i don't have a beta, i re-read everything myself before it gets posted, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 

> 
> (also, while looking up some info, i found out they shot some of the movie's scenes near the place where i live? neat!)
> 
> thank you for hearing me out – now please enjoy the read!

Steve settled down for the night not even ten minutes ago. The noise pulls him out of long-awaited sleep and back into sobering reality, where hushed voices are all around and someone in the front calls for the people’s attention. He figures it’s just another unscheduled count; they’ve been getting those more and more frequently lately, almost like the guards could sense something being in the air despite their general cluelessness. 

Not in a hurry, he climbs down from his bunk at a measured pace, letting the others take the lead while he trails behind. Then, he spots Bucky, pushing through the people in the opposite direction and waving Steve to him when their eyes meet. 

“You’ll wanna see this,” he says, his jaw set and expression unreadable. 

He urges Steve to hurry as they wave through the crowd in the narrow corridor and only slows down once they’ve made it to the front, the commotion there uncharacteristic for such a regular occurence. Buck gestures for him to keep going and Steve complies, intrigued by the strange atmosphere in the room. Most people make way as they squeeze past, having long taken to his silently determined leadership position.

“Please, settle down,” a female voice speaks. It’s a cold, aloof one he wishes he’d not recognize immediately. “The occasion for our appearance here is a joyful one. Mr. Stone himself has sent for this one here to be brought to you and done with as you please. Do consider it a gift from him to you.”

Bain smiles brightly, a flash of teeth between lips red like blood. Steve feels his facial muscles spasm as he fights an angry grimace, but the invidious woman is forgotten the moment he’s made it all the way through the crowd to the front row. 

Steve’s been wondering about the smell ever since he’s entered the front wagon. It's a sweet, distinct fragrance he couldn’t pin down for the life of him because he hasn’t scented it in _years_. He forgot what they smell like. Omegas. They haven’t had any in the tail end for at least eight years, and sometimes he doubted there were any on the train left at all. Someone argued it’s something to do with evolution, how they suddenly seemed to have died out because their bodies failed to adapt to the living conditions.

He can’t say whether it’s true or what the real reason could be; only that that on the floor right there, in front of Bain’s stilettoed feet, covered in nothing but a flimsy piece of cloth with fear in his eyes but a snarl on his face and teeth bared in warning, that’s an omega alright.

His face is bruised severely. There’s some nasty, dark marks on the rest of him too, but the blood, the split lip and his swollen-shut right eye makes the injuries stand out more prominently. The man’s unharmed eye darts around wildly, only coming to rest on Steve for the fraction of a second before it flits to someone else in the crowd, body taut in anticipation of an imminent attack. 

Looking past the obvious damage, it’s easy to tell he’s a first-class. Or was once; it would seem he’s been downgraded just recently. Blood there may be, but he’s got no real dirt or grime on him, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat but not unkempt beyond that. His facial hair is meticulously trimmed as well, the edges on his beard precise to nearly impeccable.

“I will give Mr. Stone your thanks,” Bain smiles, calculating gaze sweeping through the ranks and asserting dominance for a last time before she steps back, her expression pleased as she looks at the man at her feet. “Enjoy your stay, Anthony.”

Suddenly enraged, the omega whirls around despite his injuries to clutch the alpha’s thigh, ripping her pant leg in the process. A futile endeavor, since one of the soldiers bracketing Bain steps forward and kicks him back onto the floor while the other ushers the woman out of the car and to safety. After having put his boot between the omega’s ribs another two times purely for his own enjoyment, the last soldier scurries off as well with a provocative, careless whistle. 

With the door falling close, it’s eerily quiet but for a few mumbles from the back. The man on the ground, having curled into a ball previously, slowly sits up again, not entirely able to suppress a groan. He holds his injured side with one hand while the other clutches the cloth that’s slipped out of place, only barely covering his privates.

It does little to protect from the hungry stares he receives. Someone behind Steve mutters, “Big man’s throwin’ away his toys now, too?” and a few people chuckle darkly in response. The omega meets their looks with his good eye, apprehension tangible as he shuffles backward inch by inch.

Some men take this display of fear as cue to break out of the rows and finally pounce at the man, who hisses and curses and does everything in his power (kick, bite) to keep a hold of his one last possession: dignity. The stink of his distress is thick in the air, only increasing in potency with every passing second. Steve decides to put an end to it.

“That’s _enough_ ,” he barks, dragging one of the alphas back by the shoulders while Bucky and, after a moment, Natasha dash out of the crowd to help. He growls at the assailant, daring him to challenge his position; as expected, the younger man backs away, albeit reluctantly. With the help of his second-in-command, the others settle down without much fuss.

Steve steps in front of the cowering omega to shield him from vision and then addresses the crowd of people still gathered there, “Nothing has changed. We’re still proceeding as planned. That said, he might be of use, so he’s off limits until further notice. Are we understood?”

After a few half-hearted nods and _‘yeah, yeahs’_ Steve declares the event over. He waits for everyone to retreat to their designated sleeping spaces before he lets Buck and Nat pull the man to his feet, who barely manages to keep himself upright as he walks. Steve makes a point of leaving him to struggle on his own; he isn't about to allow anyone take the man apart until there's nothing left, but he's got little sympathy for an outcast first-class beyond that.

They sit him down in a corner next to the makeshift medical station, tying him to the post on his left with a spare piece of rope. It's a little too thick for their purposes but it'll do; Nat knows her handiwork disturbingly well. 

Out of the three of them, Bucky volunteers to keep watch. It's necessary – not so much to keep the omega where he is, but to keep everyone else away from him. Some very courageous individuals are bound to try something during the hours of the night, and they don't want that to happen. At least not until such a time when the man's usefulness is determined. 

Steve thanks them both, Nat making off to her allotted sleeping quarters in the opposite direction soon after. Finally, he leaves as well, biding his friend a good night and casting one last glance at the miserable looking figure on the floor, guarded by Bucky who looms at the opposite wall. 

He's got his gaze resolutely fixed to the ground at his feet, unmoving but for the slow blink of his eyes. The distress in the air around him is muted now, like he's doing his utmost to reign the emotion in, keep himself from baring his soul to the world now that he's already bared pretty much everything else. It would be sad and inviting pity, really, if it wasn't for the minor detail that the man was on Stone's side of the train just a few hours ago. Steve refuses to feel empathy for this one. 

* * *

The next morning – that's what it is, although they have long stopped to distinguish night and day because there's no such thing here, in this part of the train that shields them from every aspect of the frozen outside world, including vision – when he wakes up, Bucky is soon to arrive by his bed. 

"Our _guest_ got something to say I think you'll wanna hear," he says, the humor in his smirk lost in his dry voice. "Guy talks all day once he gets going." 

When they get to the medical station, the omega, of course, isn't alone but has attracted unwanted company. The small group that has gathered around him seems to at least have the decency to go by the phrase "no touching, only looking", although Steve isn't inclined to test for how much longer that'll hold true. They've already snagged the piece of cloth from the man, the loss of his only protection forcing him to retreat further into the corner behind him, naked limbs tucked tight against his body. 

Bucky halts and Steve follows suit. They regard the scene, far enough away from the action so nobody will notice their presence for the time being. 

"It's Stark," he says, and Steve averts his eyes from what's playing out in front of him to gape at the beta next to him. " _The_ Stark? Stone's omega?" 

He gets a nod in return. Steve huffs a breath, lips twitching in amusement in light of the situation's poetic irony. Demoted from the very top of the train's food chain to… this. Squirming in front of a rowdy bunch of tail-ends. Ah, how the tables turn on this fine day. 

Steve decides it's time to announce their arrival. "Alright, you've had your fun," he shouts, raising his voice over the alphas and occasional betas who are cooing, crooning and growling playfully at the man in the corner and laughing in unison whenever he gives a feral hiss in return. 

A collective sigh of disappointment emerges from the group. Somebody intones an, "Aw, come on, it was just getting good," and the only female alpha in the party snarls at Bucky in passing when he gestures for them to clear out. In the end, they all leave though, more or less without a greater fuss. 

Stark is still huddled to the back of the wall, tension in every line of his body as he regards them. Whoever took his scrap of cloth didn't think to return it, and Steve has to admit – well, it isn't quite fair, leaving him bare during what is essentially an interrogation, but nobody's ever wasted a thought on fairness either when they crammed them into this place like cattle and pat themselves on the back for their compassion. 

"Tell him what you told me," Bucky orders, arms crossed over his chest – and it is an order, no doubt about that. He’s cutting right to the chase, leaving no room for arguments in a way that reminds Steve just why he's not only his best friend but also most trusted enforcer at that. 

Stark clears his throat, line of his mouth flattening a bit in resignation as he realizes that this is how this talk is going to happen – with him being reminded of his place during every moment of it simply by virtue of his state of undress. 

“Alright, so, uh, our buddy Stone? He thinks of this as a lesson. I told him 'no' one too many times and now he thinks he can throw me to the wolves and then eventually I’ll learn to roll over and take it. _But._ He isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, because I know something he doesn’t.”

Stark makes a deliberate pause, dragging out the moment of silence. Steve rises both brows in clear displeasure and signals him to go on, impatient. This better be good.

“I know what you really want, and that’s not some omega to hand around a few times until he turns all sloppy and glassy-eyed. No,” he drags in a breath and points at Steve, finger just shy of touching his chest, “ _you_ want to the front. You want the engine. And I just so happen to be your only chance of getting there.” 

Steve’s going to admit, the guy’s got spunk for a naked, first-class omega in ten wagons full of angry alphas who’d give a not-so-figurative limb to get a go at him. He is nowhere near convinced, though.

“And why is that?” he scoffs, one corner of his mouth crooked upward in mockery as he shoots Bucky a look. "From what I've seen, your friends in first don't give a rat's ass about you." His friend isn’t nearly as entertained; he merely urges Stark to continue with a pointed twitch of his chin. Steve figures there must be a decent twist to the whole story if he’s got Buck contemplating it already.

The omega retracts his hand and pulls his leg tighter against himself, seemingly reminded of his vulnerable state all at once in the face of Steve’s scorn. “See,” Stark lowers his voice and looks around, blinking against the lights overhead, ”your plan is missing one key component and without it, this revolution is over before it’s even started. If you’re lucky, you’ll get past the first few gates, but then? Next time a door opens, they’ll come prepared. And you’re going to hope they kill you right there on the spot, because everything that comes after is worse.” 

Steve chuckles and leans back, hand in his hair. He almost wants to cut in with a sneering comment along the lines of _‘A first-class preaching to me about what they do to revolters from the tail end, now I’ve seen everything’_ but the man pushes onward before he gets to speak up. 

“But you just won the lottery, because I know a lot more things Stone doesn’t. I can take you wherever you need to go _because_ ,” he taps his index finger against his temple, slow and deliberate. There's a manic sort of glee in his eyes. ”I know every mechanism, every circuit, every _single_ wire in this whole god-forsaken hell-train. And you know why I do? Because I. Built. It.”

Steve feels himself recoil in surprise or maybe even shock. Just an inch or so – it shouldn't be too noticeable, but Stark's pointedly lifted eyebrow speaks volumes. He might be a liar, but damn if he isn't perceptive. It's almost funny; for a moment, Steve was almost convinced that there had to be something more to this man than just his unapologetic defiance. 

He's about to respond, a burst of laughter bubbling up from his throat at the thought of throwing this desperate, desperate omega to the sharks – and then Stark adds something that makes his blood run cold. 

"Who do you think sent the messages?" 

Steve blanks. He never questioned the nature of the sender – sure, there was some curiosity, but at the end of the day, they had someone at the front end who was on their side, and he never meant to look a gift horse in the mouth. The messages came irregularly, but when they did, the information and tools hidden in the rations they were handed always proved useful. 

And it all was thanks to… Stark. 

_"Do_ you even think, or is that the road less traveled in these parts?" 

There's a second where Steve doesn't care. No matter how helpful he may have been in the past or may be in the future, for a moment, he doesn't care that Stark might be invaluable to them, doesn't care for reason or logic or self-control. He hears only the mockery in Stark's tone, one that is meant to camouflage the fear visible in his eyes, but mockery nonetheless. 

Nobody, and especially not an outcast first-class, speaks to or about his people like they're sheep to be herded into a dark place and forgotten about until there comes such a time when they might prove useful in some way or another.

There's a second where he wants to rip Stark's throat out. He knows he can; he's done it before, to alphas bigger in size with thrice his temper. But Bucky's scent spikes in a way that's a warning, and his face that is in Steve's peripheral vision looks steely and dangerous, and Steve remembers himself. 

He blinks, and when he slowly opens his eyes again, he can make out the desperately suppressed panic in Stark's features, the strain of his fingers where they're clutching his bruised knees to his chest and, incredibly, the way his wide-open eyes are pleading for…mercy.

Yeah. He better. 

Steve breathes out. He backs off and out of Stark's space entirely, and only then does he say, "We do need you. So by Christ, I hope you ain't bullshitting us. For your sake."  
  
  


* * *

Stark, for all that Steve still eyes him in distrust, pulls his weight. 

What he mentioned about building the train proves true as well, in spite of how little they all initially believed it to be true. Looks like they fell for Stone's thorough brainwash just like everyone else did. 

Long before the Earth froze over in the aftermath of a failed, last-ditch attempt to curb catastrophic global warming, Stone had begun to promote this project as his, and his alone: A train track circumventing the entire planet with a one-mile train running on it that would be entirely self-sufficient in its power, food and water supply. 

Stone Incorporated was a tech giant on top of the industry, sure, had been even before its merger with Stark Industries when the latter was still in the hands of Howard Stark, but nobody quite expected something on this scale. Two camps formed quickly enough: The one that celebrated, near worshipped the man for his ingenious idea, and the one that stamped him as crazy and paranoid for developing technology like this for a scenario that would never come to pass. 

Needless to say, no representatives of the latter persuasion made it onto the train when the world did indeed go to shit and it ended up being humanity's last hope after all. 

In any case – the man was on the cover of every magazine, in every talkshow and every paper, reciting every aspect of _his_ greatest achievement in such detail and passion time and time again that it was hard to believe that in reality, he had never moved a finger to assemble this technical marvel at all.

No, in fact, the brain behind this operation was maybe the one person Steve (and every other outsider) would have suspected the least: Stone's omega, Howard Stark's son, bonded to the alpha for business purposes but also, as it seemed, to milk him for all his Stark genius behind the curtains of a public bonding born out of necessity.

Steve admits to himself that Stark's claims must be true when they first lay out their plans for him and explain their progress so far, which has the omega cutting in after only a moment to point out all the inconsistencies he's found. He's almost mad, at first, because Stark is right – the time it takes the guards to engage the safety protocols should suffice for them to make it from the first to the fourth security door, but there's too many unknown variables for the odds to be in their favor. 

Stark goes on to say that they should execute the maneuver as planned but send someone in there with him to get to the control panel that lies underneath the floor plating right past the first gate – they just need to make sure he gets there and rewires some of the switches to deactivate remote control of the doors, and voilá. 

"I bet you these fucking morons don't even know it's there," he scoffs, and then, words pouring from his mouth at a velocity that gives Steve's ability to follow their meaning a run for its money, explains the exact approach in which the circuitry needs to be intercepted so as to not damage it – just, you know, in case he doesn't make it. 

Steve strictly refuses to meet the man with kindness and curbs such feelings as soon as he notices one emerge in the depth of his chest, but there are times when he allows himself to feel a certain sympathy. 

In light of everything he has to have been through, reduced to a pretty face next to Stone's larger-than-life persona, used for his abilities and finally robbed of his creations as Stone carried off the laurels – there's not much animosity toward the former first-class in Steve left. 

They won't be friends, but a truce is justified by all accounts. 

* * *

“Where do you keep the Kronole?” 

Stark has just sifted through all their equipment, stored away waiting and ready in the very back of the last wagon. Sooner, long before Stark came to join them, they’d sectioned off part of it to use as a sort of operations room, where everything related to the cause – including meetings – was held. Now, the place is filled with an assortment of tools, most of them crafted (torches, bludgeons, ropes) and the empty barrels they’ll roll out when the day comes to take the train by storm. 

That and a lot more is stored here; whatever the hell the thing is Stark speaks of, he’s got no idea.

“The what?”

Stark shoots him an open-mouthed look of disbelief that carries an undercurrent of horror. 

“The Kronole. That I sent. With every message. Please don’t tell me...” he exhales forcibly, brows knitting in a contemplative frown. “Look, it’s like these small, black chunks of– well, it’s industrial waste, but–”

Steve realizes what his ramblings are about. He holds a hand up, which promptly causes Stark to shut up and follow him across the room, where Steve pulls out a small pouch from behind the large stack of used cloth they’ll use to light the torches. Since nobody knew what their purpose was or why they were being sent, Steve collected and left them here, forgetting about their existence until just now.

When Steve hands it over to him, Stark cradles the sachet to his chest with both his bound hands (they haven’t gotten rid of the restraints but switched them to the front for convenience's sake) like it’s precious and then pulls it open to count the individual pieces inside. Finally, he blows out a relieved breath and directs his attention back to Steve, bag still clutched tight in his fist.

“This,” he says, pointing to it with his other hand, “is your most valuable possession. I can’t _believe–”_ He cuts himself short, breathes in for a long moment as if to steady himself. “I nearly had my throat slit to get my hands on this, and you... See, a lot of us in first get high on these chemicals – don’t look at me, I got tired of it a decade ago – and so people get very agitated very quickly when they realize you’re what’s standing between them and their next hit. But what they don’t know–”

He pulls out one of the chunks, and it looks a little like a sad piece of coal. 

“One of these has the explosive force equivalent to ten sticks of dynamite.”

Steve’s eyebrows wander up to his hairline. Well, shucks. 

“You’re serious?” he asks, just to be sure. Stark snorts and gestures up and down himself – his bruises have turned a greenish blue and he’s wearing an old, dirt-stained set of shabby linen clothing they bought off a shorter beta in exchange for their ration of nutrient blocks for the day. “Do I look like I can afford to be joking?”

“You look like you might be desperate enough to try,” Steve retorts, unimpressed. 

The other man sighs, but although his expression shows annoyance, his body grows rigid at the implication that Steve isn’t taking him by his word. His hand moves to scratch the back of his neck but the attempt is thwarted by the rope tying his wrists to one another, and so he yields to the pull and aborts the movement.

“Well, I can’t exactly give you a demonstration, can I? But I can show you how to take these apart. With the supply we have here, we could get five, six dozen smaller doses easy.”

–

Stark holds up a rather unassuming packet of cloth to present it to Steve’s critical gaze. It’s tied together at the top with what appears to be a braided string of threads extracted from his shirt, one frayed end dangling at the side of it. 

“You throw that at some poor bastard? Boom. Well-done mincemeat. Just need something to light the fuse.”

Steve nods. “I’ll see what we can do about that,” he says, and points at Stark’s makeshift workstation in front of the operations room when he’s regarded with an inquisitive gaze. “Keep going.”

As he turns to go, the man clears his throat with ostentation. Steve halts to face him and sees him holding up his tied hands, the implication clear as day. Oh, sure. Keep on dreaming, buddy.

“These stay on,” Steve tells him, resolute. Stark is about to open his mouth – probably to argue that, well, he could blow them all up like this too, so what’s the difference anyway – but Steve doesn’t allow him to get a word in. 

He smiles, and it’s a little snide. “They’re symbolic.”

Natasha, who’s in charge of monitoring the omega’s every move, smirks at Steve in passing, a quick flash of teeth that goes as soon as it came. “This is going remarkably well,” she comments, in a tone that indicates she finds that fact to be suspicious rather than pleasing. Steve halts in his step and urges her to elaborate the thought, always trusting her instincts above all. 

“Something’s… off, I don’t know what it is. He’s antsy. I don’t think it’s because he means to try something, but we should be on lookout.” 

  
  


* * *

The following week is spent in preparation of the mission, their lives' work. 

They work the plan over yet again, solving strategic weak points that Stark is all too happy to point out. Closed doors shouldn’t pose a problem anymore – with his knowledge of the technology within the train, it’s practically impossible to keep them out. 

The main question they are left to deal with is how to proceed once they’re met with resistance from the opposing side: How many guards are there really? Have their ammunition reserves actually been depleted years ago or is there something left? Which amount of casualties can they bear? What if they take over the water supply and Stone still doesn’t want to negotiate?

To most, there’s no answer to. Pondering them doesn’t serve any purpose but to spark doubt, and so Steve doesn’t. This revolution was always going to be concomitant with great risk and even greater loss. If they make it, it’ll be with more luck than brains, an act of pure serendipity. 

Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try. Doesn’t mean they can’t not try. They have to, for the sake of the people and everything still right and just in the world. Even if that everything isn’t much, and the world has considerably shrunken in size. 

Stark helps.

In fact, he works himself to exhaustion, preparing the Kronole and making a point of improving every tool in their admittedly small arsenal, and Steve’d think it’s all an act to get on their good side, except there’s something else, there. Stark obviously hasn’t forgotten about Steve’s threat. A large chunk of his motivation is bound to stem from the knowledge of what will happen should he fail to deliver on his promise, but underneath it all, well...

Underneath it all, he might just despise Stone with the combined fervor of the whole entire tail end. 

That hatred fuels him like it does them all, like it does Steve, and it’s a strange thing to bond over. An ugly thing to share, but they do. Share it. Feed from it, like they do from the tasteless protein bars they’re handed, every day anew, grab your share and run, and ~~God~~ Tiberius Stone have mercy if you take more than your allotted ration. 

The silent, brooding rage toward a man not present rings in Stark’s voice and shows in his bloodshot eyes as he scrapes layer after layer off the final piece of Kronole in precariously calculated motions. His mouth and nose are hidden under the piece of cloth he’s tied around the better part of his face, protecting him from the fumes that have gotten Steve lightheaded more than once as he watched him work. 

“You’re done,” Steve says, tapping his shoulder. It’s late. “Let’s go.”

Stark sighs, sound muffled by the makeshift mask, but doesn’t protest. They’ve had this debate every day in the recent past and it’s always been Steve who’s gotten his way in the end, if only because Stark’s still not exactly in a position to argue.

Steve is about to lean away, but then stops dead in his tracks when he catches a whiff of a strange smell – one that’s definitely not the Kronole. This scent isn’t predominantly burnt and sour; in truth, it’s not unpleasant at all. 

He doesn’t know it, can’t remember ever having smelled something like it and yet it’s… doing things to his hindbrain. Something in him shifts, coiling tight and urgent in his gut as he, almost subconsciously, opens his mouth a fraction to inhale more of the smell and pander that sudden need for it within him. 

Of course, it’s this moment that Stark decides to rise from his workbench and turn around. He frowns at the sight of Steve, lips agape, his expression half puzzled and half irritated. Steve clears his throat to not sound all too abashed when he says, “You smell.” 

The other man scoffs, his disgruntled stare solidifying. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Yeah? Well, _you_ smell like you haven’t showered in a decade– Oh, wait. Right. That’s because you haven’t.”

Steve’s answering, indignant huff is witnessed by no one, as Stark has disappeared to his quarters, a sleeping space in one of the last columns of beds in the wagon. When the alpha follows him, he’s already made the climb to the second bunk from the top, one that’s been vacant for quite some time – Steve can’t even remember who its last inhabitant was – and is now slipping behind the curtain (a raggedy blanket fixed under the mattress on top) and out of view. 

He decides to let it be, mostly for his own sake. 

Usually, he’d go out of his way to make sure Stark’s secured and restrained even in his sleep; he’s still an outcast first-class to most of the eyes and ears around here and the people don’t like knowing he’s running around freely. After all, it’s not his place: he hasn’t earned it, hasn’t gone through the months of hunger and horror that everybody in the tail end remembers but doesn’t speak of, a nightmare endured in silence.

Tonight, Steve makes an exception. Whatever that scent was, he doesn’t want to explore his reaction to it any further. The taste he’s gotten so far is enough to know it’d only cause trouble if he were to be subjected to it any more. 

* * *

Steve jolts awake hours later for a reason he can’t pinpoint. 

Not at first, anyway. It’s not a nightmare (he stopped getting those a long time ago), and not somebody else shaking him awake. Most of the wagon he’s in is still asleep – even Bucky in the bunk under him. 

He smells it before he hears the commotion all the way in the back: distress, acrid and sharp. There’s a hint of something else underneath it, a sweet and alluring undertone that is overpowered by the fear it shares the scent with. 

_Stark,_ Steve thinks, and suddenly he’s up and racing toward the source of the smell with a single-mindedness he hasn’t often observed in himself. The voices in the back end grow louder, and when he’s arrived at the last wagon, it’s Natasha who comes his way, intercepting Steve’s run. 

“He’s asking for you,” the alpha tells him, voice strikingly level. What she says surprises him, but the things she’s _not_ saying are of possibly greater value. Steve narrows his eyes despite the knowledge that he’s long ago acquired: you can’t read anything off of Natasha she doesn’t want you to. “It’s– heat, I think,” she adds, taking mercy on him.

Steve feels his mouth run dry. That makes…. sense. He might not have been in contact with any omegas for a while, but he still should’ve known, should’ve been able to tell the signs. Not only his scent shifted – Stark also complained about being too warm despite the ever-freezing cold seeping in from outside. On top of that, he was constantly on edge, twitchy and irritable in a way that, combined, should’ve alerted Steve to what was going on. 

A leader is supposed to know these things _before_ they happen.

He thanks Natasha and squares his jaw as he approaches the small group of people that has gathered at the end of the corridor, all visibly agitated, their collective attention focused on the sleeping space up where Stark is hidden. A tired-looking beta woman with a toddler on her arm is fending off the crowd, bellowing that _This ain't an attraction,_ and _Folks're tryna sleep here and y'all should too,_ but despite her great efforts, the effect is rather sobering. 

Steve mutters angrily underneath his breath as draws himself up tall to push through them. "Thank you, Donna," he tells her, smile grateful but strained, and then raises his voice to address the crowd. 

"I know this is something we haven't had before. Hell, we haven't seen an omega in years. But, Christ, people. We're _not_ animals, no matter how many times Stone's tried to hammer that idea into all our heads. Alright? Let's not go out of our way to prove the bastard right."

Reminding everyone of their shared hatred for the man almost always makes a lasting impact, and tonight's no exception. Some affirmative shouts and growls emerge from the men and women in front of him, the group disbanding as one after the other leaves. 

A few of the onlookers have to be _made_ scarce, but Steve still has a certain authority, and even those that initially look like they'd love to take him in a fight slink away in the end. Nobody's questioned his position and then followed through with it so far – ultimately, his capabilities are accepted and respected for what they are. 

Once everyone's dealt with, he makes to move toward Stark's sleeping quarters – and is promptly held back by Donna, who looks at him with a tight-lipped expression and motions for him to settle. 

"Stop right there, darlin'. You's gon' scare that poor thing t'death in ya rampant alpha frenzy," she chides, clapping his shoulder. It's then that Steve notices that even her muted beta scent has an unsettled, tense tang to it, all thanks to him. He rarely gets worked up to the point of losing his grip on the pheromones he's putting out.

It takes a few deep breaths to calm his elevated heart rate, although the impromptu breathing exercise makes him all the more aware of Stark's scent that's now brimming with potency as everybody else's gradually dissipates. The stink of fear and trepidation has lessened as well, although it's still undoubtedly there. 

Donna has moved to her bed at the bottom bunk, cradling her boy close. She nods at him in approval when he searches her gaze, questioning. "Go. An' keep it down a lil'. I always try t'hold his ears close 'n all, but it ain't that easy." 

Steve swallows, nods, and approaches the last column of bunks, looking up. He doesn't know if Stark will even want him to – help. Heats are tough, but it's not that they can't get through them alone. Without any real relief, most of them just hurt; at least that's what he was able to tell, as an outsider. Steve already knows Stark can take a beating, and this probably shouldn't be all that different. 

Except – when he's climbed up the ladder, Steve hears him, clothes rustling, breathing hard and sounding broken little gasps that are probably suppressed whimpers. He smells him, too, and it's not the scent that carries everywhere but the one you just get up close, arousal spicy-sweet with musk underneath that Steve knows means he's wet and dripping with it. 

And, well, he's not an animal, but he's still _human,_ and that sensation is something that doesn't go unnoticed by his baser instincts. Even before he's gotten a proper look at the omega, he feels himself take interest, blood rushing south and cock hardening in his pants quicker than he might be comfortable admitting. 

It's been a _long_ damn time for him, too. Too long to pretend the sight that greets him when he pulls away the blanket-curtain that shields Stark from vision and looks at him as he lies there doesn't affect him. 

He's entirely unclothed, his all layers abandoned at the foot of the mattress. His skin is flushed and glistening with sweat, erection having taken on a purplish color and curving against his stomach. One of his hands is shoved between his legs and the other in his face, clamped between his teeth to keep the noise at bay. His hair sticks to his forehead and doesn't even stir when he whips his head around, gaze frantic until he determines who's just invaded his privacy. 

"Fucking _finally_ ," Stark wheezes through a relieved exhale as he lays eyes on Steve, his pupils dilated to the point black dominates his brown irises. 

"You sure you want–" Steve starts, now that he's still (mostly) got his head screwed on right, because while they share one enemy, their relationship isn't even on the verge of amicable.

"Am I sure that I'd rather have your rank fucking dick up my hole than overheat and end up having a– a stroke in this place?" He hisses, _angry,_ but then swallows audibly and his next breath is shaky. "I, look, I burn hot, and I usually have some things to help me… cope. Thought I'd have another week, and by then we'd have either made it to the front or kicked the bucket, but, _mh_ , this's just my luck."

A shudder goes through him, his whole being trembling with it. Steve's nostrils flare as a renewed, fresher wave of Stark's arousal reaches him and he takes it in greedily despite himself. A wet squelch makes his gaze travel down the omega’s body, not quite able to keep it contained to his face anymore. Stark has no shame – he's reached down inside himself, moving in jerky motions to bring him some amount of alleviation. Steve can't see it from this angle, but he can imagine it, his hole weeping with slick as he plunges his fingers in, more spilling out around his rim as soon as he reaches deeper–

"Please," Stark suddenly grinds out, hoarse and utterly wretched. Steve's eyes snap back up. He hasn't witnessed the man plead with anyone for anything – not even Bain as she left him here, all but throwing him to the sharks. And yet… "I need, I– just, the one time. That's it. I'll never ask you for anything, but, this once. I can be– I can be good, _please_. Whatever you want, just don't. Don't let them–"

"Shh," Steve intones softly, and the words spilling so copiously from Stark's mouth suddenly cease, stop and die at the slightest hint of a command that isn't one. "'s okay, Stark. I'm staying. C'mon, scoot." 

Nervous tension leaves the man in a shuddering breath. Steve hurriedly sheds his coat and then swings one leg up next to him, nudging him to make his intentions known. Stark moves over, but he's still taking up too much space with his legs spread apart and, well, they'll have to change things up in any case. The bunks here– missionary just doesn’t work that well. 

"'m gonna need you to turn around, alright?" 

He's lowered his voice to a whisper, wanting to disturb the other inhabitants in the wagon as little as possible. It isn't about privacy – there's no privacy here. Whatever you're doing, whenever you're doing it, people are going to know. At some point you either stop caring or you go insane. Everything he can hope to do now is keep the noise down and not wake everyone in the vicinity. (No sleep is bad for morale.)

Stark complies with the request fairly quickly; one moment, he's eyeing him, wide-eyed and throat bobbing. The next, he's scrambling to flop onto his stomach, back rising and falling in a swift rhythm that falters briefly when Steve squeezes into the space behind him and brushes his bare legs. 

Looking at Stark's naked backside spread out before him (and it's a sight to behold for sure) Steve abruptly becomes aware of the throbbing pain of his erection still confined to his pants. 

It takes him a second to spot the bruises – they’ve mostly faded like the rest, but they’re there, splotches of yellow in the vague shape of handprints against olive skin, and the implications make Steve pause. Only for a moment in time, though, because it’s not something he wants to think about and it definitely isn’t something Stark will want to talk about, so he shoves the thought aside, locking it away with so many others that came before it.

He's alpha enough to admit he's looked at Stark with a certain type of _interest_ from day one, but he would've never thought them ending up in this position was even a possibility – there's millions of reasons why it shouldn't have been. 

And yet, he's here, crammed in a tiny space with this defiant, irritating, loud-mouthed omega turned into a shivering, helpless, wanton one. It's wrong to want it this much, Steve knows that. Depraved is what it is, but he can't help it – he runs his fingertips down Stark's spine, just grazing the heated skin, from the curve of his neck to the small of his back but no further. The body underneath him trembles in anticipation and finally, Stark bites out a frustrated whine, opting to rut against the sheets below him. 

Steve doesn't plan on making him wait. He doesn't think he'd be able to, even if he wanted – his fingers are itching to touch, his rational mind clouded with the frankly intoxicating scent, and his every muscle taut in preparation for what's to come. 

Having unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper, he's unable to stifle the low groan in the back of his throat as he takes himself in hand. 

There's a rustle from the top of the bed, and when he lifts his head, Stark's casting him a _look_ , reddened lips littered with bite marks and eyes swimming with a silent plea that Steve's sure he isn't even aware of. Then, he lowers his chest back onto the bed, pulls his knees in and arches his back, and – Steve hasn't had a chance to begin with, but Stark presenting himself in a submissive demeanor so unlike his insubordinate personality does ugly things to his self-control. 

At the first touch of his hand to the swell of his ass, Stark whimpers and instinctively presses back against it. Steve flares up with want, needing to elicit that sound again; he thumbs the swollen pucker of his hole for only a moment before he pushes a few fingers in, the slide easy with the only resistance being the one when he moves to pull them back out, the slick-coated insides working against him. 

Stark moans, wanting and remonstrating at the same time. Then, all at once surprisingly coherent, he lifts his head and mutters through a croon, "How long's it been, hm? Bet you're–just _desperate_ to get a knot off, _alpha._ Get me all worked up 'n messy, with it, with your– _"_

Steve slicks up his dick with one hand and uses the other to grab a fistful of Stark's hair, unceremoniously pressing his face into the mattress and deferring any further comments. Dirty talk would be fine if everyone in the bunks around them wasn't able to hear what is only meant for Steve's ears – at least Steve tells himself it's about holding up (relative) peace and quiet instead of keeping Stark's words and sounds just for himself. 

What follows is a soft _nghh,_ the man pushing back into his grasp and his legs spreading apart wider in response, putting the part of himself aching for touch most on display. 

"Figured you'd like that," he mumbles, forcing Stark to deepen the bow in his back as he shuffles closer on his knees and leans over him, dragging his cock along the omega’s cleft, more slick easing the way at the things the action insinuates will happen. 

The man under him shifts impatiently, body close to shaking in quiet exhilaration. Steve hears a pleased rumble – and discovers that it's coming from deep in his own chest, a subconscious response to the willing omega just waiting to be mounted right there before him. 

His resolve to wait even another second breaks right then. Steve guides himself in-between Stark's cheeks, another gush of liquid greeting his cockhead as it pushes against the fluttering muscle of his opening. 

Like the calm before the storm, Stark's suddenly motionless, breath shallow, muscles and tendons straining and releasing like it takes his all not to tense up entirely. "I got'chu, let go," Steve assures him, just a hint of firmness in his voice. He nips at the skin behind Stark's ear. "There's a good fella, Stark. Tha's it." 

He breaches him, just enough to get the head in, and Stark melts beneath him – he's mewling, a wonderful, keening sound that drags out into a whine as Steve sinks deeper into him. 

The wet, gripping heat around him is a bliss that casts a pall over everything else, allows him to forget about both the place and time he's in for a spectacular moment. It’s quiet in his head, both outside and inside drowned out, finally _._ He hasn’t known that kind of serenity in as long as he can remember, has forgotten what it feels like, when everything _shuts up_ for even the fraction of a second. 

Steve only notices the long, blissful groan after it's slipped past his lips and he has to bite the inside of his cheek bloody to cut himself off, curb the noise that betrays just how much he's ached for something like this.

After he’s sheathed his length in the other man, pelvis meeting his hip, Steve blinks his eyes open, dazed. Being assaulted with all that sensation, he hasn’t even noticed they fell close. Stark makes himself heard almost immediately the moment Steve bottoms out and stills: He grumbles a protesting “ _Alpha”_ and then opts to take matters into his own hands, shoving his hips back and forth to get some more of the desired friction. 

Steve chuckles at the shameless display of need but humors him, folding his body over Stark’s to bridge the space between them and get a better angle before he begins fucking into him in earnest. Stark yelps, unprepared, as the first few thrusts crowd him into the mattress – then, he begins to meet Steve’s movements with his own, their bodies colliding with sharp, wet slaps. There’s a possibility he isn’t even fully aware of it: a litany of small, guttural _ohs_ wells up and spills over his lips next, varying in pitch and volume which seems to directly correlate with how hard Steve’s thrusts come.

He's – well, he's loud. Steve promised they'd at least try and not let the whole place in on their quick-and-dirty, didn't he? The alpha reaches up to where Stark is currently drooling into the sheets, fabric underneath his face already damp with spit. He shoves his fingers – his open fist, really – into the man’s mouth, and there’s a moment where Stark clearly doesn’t know how to react to the unexpected intrusion: He bites down and harshly sucks in air through his mouth, gagging, until he eventually realizes it’ll be much easier if he just breathes through his nose instead. 

“Shh, there you go," Steve praises. "Ain't that bad, is it?" 

Of course, he doesn't get an answer, but the pleased rumble he receives when he snaps his hips forward just a fraction harder speaks for itself. 

It won't be too long now – he can tell the beginnings of his knot forming at the base of his cock, making the drag in and out of Stark's hole more difficult by the minute. 

Steve consciously tries to increase both the speed and force of his thrusts, and the effect the change of pace has on the other man is palpable immediately. His scent spikes with a novel, vigorous intensity, telling of the fact that he's already treading the edge, and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he, maybe (not) unconsciously, bites down on Steve's digits still stuffed into his mouth. 

The way he's pounding into Stark now is brutal – Steve would fear he might be hurting him if everything didn't point toward the fact that Stark enjoys it like this, punishing. 

Blood rushes in Steve's ears, tuning out their combined heavy breathing, the slap of skin and the creaks of wood underneath them. Under the many layers he wears, he's sweating. Stark's moans vibrate against his skin and send pleasant shivers down his spine, again and again until – that's when he's done for. 

Steve comes with a shout that he just so manages to bury in the back of Stark's neck, digging his teeth in. Around his cock filling Stark with his spend, his hole clenches and flutters like it's trying to milk him for every last drop he's got. Steve groans, deeply satisfied, and only then does his knot catch, its inflated size slipping past Stark's fucked-out rim forcefully. 

Beneath him, the other man shudders, finally reaching his climax at the sensation of Steve tying them together. _Hnnnhg,_ is everything his vocal cords accomplish, although the sound might've been more of a howl if he wasn't gagged. After a couple of heaving breaths, he collapses in exhaustion, muscles going limp all the sudden. 

Steve releases the skin on Stark's neck that he's bitten multiple marks into, temporarily marking the omega as his. He slings an arm around the other's chest, now stained with the man’s own come, and carefully rolls them both to the side, making sure to face Stark inward. 

There might not be a real danger here (right now), but Steve still feels better turning his own back to the exposed side of the bunk, able to protect Stark’s naked body from the prying gazes of curious individuals.

A few minutes pass until they’ve both recovered from the effects of their orgasm, breath and pulse slowing in tandem. Stark isn’t really lucid and won’t be for the next few hours; he smacks his lips and hums in content as he presses his rear back. The movement shifts Steve’s knot in a way that makes them both suck in a sharp breath in near perfect synchrony. 

To keep him from stirring, Steve holds him to his chest with one arm while he reaches up and out of the space of the bunk with the other. The search proves fruitless at first, before his hand finally comes in contact with what he’s looking for – his coat, hanging abandoned over the ladder outside. Steve pulls it back inside and lays it out over them; he feels the sweat itch as it cools on himself and, while Stark might not notice it, it’s likely to affect his body even more, naked as he is. He wants to avoid either of them catching a cold if at all possible.

Steve curls around the man pressed to his front tighter to keep the warmth from escaping best as possible, one arm over his stomach and the other serving as a pillow for his head, his hand brushing away the dark, sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. His features have relaxed as he’s slipped into a sudden sleep; there’s nothing left to indicate the sharp tongue and all that fierce wit hidden underneath.

When he realizes what he’s doing, Steve pauses. He’s rubbing up and down Stark’s cooling skin, from his chest to the V of his hips, his nose buried in the hollow of the omega’s throat to monitor the slowly abating urgency in his scent as he presses the occasional, all too tender kiss to his neck. 

It’s an instinctual response – of course it is. There’s nothing else to do for him here than comfort the heat-ridden omega and ensure he is content even after the act is over with, like nature has engineered him to. 

Still, Steve aborts the action as he catches himself. The enjoyment was admittedly _very_ mutual, but their coupling was a means to an end, nothing more. If Stark was conscious and in his right mind – well, he wouldn’t want him getting any more up close than necessary either. 

That thought is what keeps Steve away, in the end, until sleep eventually takes him.

–

Outside, people are already up and about when he wakes to find Stark rubbing off on his morning wood. Right. Last night was not, in fact, a very vivid sexual fantasy. Might’ve fooled him.

“Why din’t you wake me up?” he asks, voice rugged with sleep. 

Stark’s push-and-pull motions immediately jerk to a halt, like thunderstruck. He turns his head to look at Steve out of the corner of his eye, the lack of distance between their faces only becoming noticeable now. “Because I didn’t want you to,” he says, flippant in a way that is clearly meant to distract from the red tinge in his cheeks. Steve isn’t sure if it’s to do with his still heightened body temperature or something else entirely, but he’s got a good guess.

“If you need it again, just say it. Told you I’d help, so I’m helping. No half measures.”

Stark looks away, but Steve sees him worry his bottom lip. “It’s, ah, not. Not about that.” His blush darkens and he clears his throat, stalling. “I can’t, with– with everyone. It’s humiliating.”

Shamefaced and squirming because he’s just realizing the full scope of what living here really is like. They’d certainly have their own, private space for this sort of thing in first, Steve is aware. Well, not here. Welcome to reality. 

“I recall you not caring in the slightest about that fact just a few hours ago,” Steve reminds him, not quite able to bite back the comment. 

In the meantime, his hand has traveled over the other’s hip and down to where his dick lies erect against his stomach. As he takes it in hand, he begins rubbing his own erection against the omega’s crack in time with every pull, repeatedly brushing his opening but never slipping in.

Stark’s breath stutters for a moment, but he manages to respond. “That– is not the same thing, and you know it. I was completely out of it and people were asleep. This is, is like performing for an audience.”

“Well,” Steve mutters, leaning close so his breath will brush Stark’s ear. He gives a rough tug to the man’s cock and is rewarded with a breathy whimper. “Maybe I want them to hear.”

After that, Stark is uncharacteristically amenable. 

* * *

Convincing him to come out of hiding after the symptoms have died down is… difficult, at first.

After the third time, Stark declared he had no need for Steve’s _assistance_ anymore, thanks a whole lot but no more if you don’t mind, and Steve complied. That’s what it was meant to be from the beginning – a favor. He did his due and that was that. They had more important things to focus on now.

Except he couldn’t focus – and he didn’t hide it well, that much became evident when both Bucky and Natasha came to him on separate occasions and suggested that they, together, brief everyone on how the plan was going to be carried out one final time. Just until Stark was back on his feet and able to go through his part, of course. 

Stark gets his act together a few days after, and he’s acting like he’s being made to do the walk of shame even though nobody really looks at him twice – no more than they usually do, in any case. 

Strangely, that behavior changes Steve’s perspective of him, and for the better: it makes him human, shows that there’s more here than just a tightly coiled ball of anger, snark and defiance.

The man’s an outcast first-class, sure, and a past version of Steve might’ve not been able to look past that one characteristic. A past him (and he doesn’t like to admit to that fact) would’ve maybe done what Stone expected them to do, what he _hoped_ would happen to Stark as he had him thrown to their feet to be taken apart and ravaged until not a scrap of his soul was left.

Too bad for the big man in front. Because Stark, well, he's – a former first-class, and sometimes he complains about the most trivial of things like how he craves coffee, misses music, and would kill for a clean towel (Steve refrains from commenting that he'll get to do that soon enough) – damn fucking witty, and resourceful, and when Steve accidentally calls him ‘genius' in a roundabout way, Stark’s gloating makes him almost want to take the words back. But then he doesn’t.

And after that, the man suddenly pauses in thought and goes, “So, ah. Steve, is it? I think we haven’t been properly introduced.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Anthony, no?”

Stark’s expression darkens for the fraction of a second, but he shakes it off. “I prefer Tony.”

“Alright, Tony. Nice to meet you.”

The security gate opens for today’s issuing of rations, a couple of guards setting foot in the wagon as they roll the food cart in. Only that nobody will get any rations today. All they’ll get today is blood, and hopefully, salvation – by whatever means. 

But together, in one way or another.

  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> has au steve inherited all curtis everett characteristics? does he, in fact, know how babies taste? we shall never know!


End file.
